


you and me (in our court-ordered community service)

by menocchio



Series: downtown man [2]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Consequences, Developing Relationship, Divorce, M/M, Sexual Tension, Unlikely Refractory Times for Gen X Men, this is a rom-com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 16,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menocchio/pseuds/menocchio
Summary: “Our son's sharing memes of my drunk karate match with his cousins on Facebook, and I'm about to start 100 hours of community service alongside drug addicts, petty criminals, and Johnny Lawrence,” he said. He spread his arms and smiled wide, with teeth. “Amanda, I'm fantastic.”
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: downtown man [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026910
Comments: 151
Kudos: 327





	1. A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Guess this is a 'verse now. But don't worry, this won't be another 45-chapter monstrosity.

“Oh, my,” was the first thing Amanda said when she saw him next. Then she dragged him into the employee bathroom.

She took in the bruising in silence, and Daniel thought he might as well not have bothered to shower and shave that morning, for all the credit he was getting. He frowned at the table holding the sanitary napkins, remembering a time when she would drag him into this bathroom for reasons other than – whatever was happening here.

“You can't go out on the floor looking like this,” she decided.

“What? Don't be ridiculous.” He ducked past her shoulder and looked in the mirror. It did look worse than it had in his bathroom at home. “Maybe you could... lend me some concealer or something?”

“That's a bruise from a fist, Daniel, not some hickey the quarterback gave you.” She paused. “Also it wouldn't work. Your skin tone's darker than mine.”

He sighed and turned away from the sink, bracing his hands back against the sanitary napkin table. “I have some paperwork I can do in my office,” he said, after a long moment of increasingly awkward silence.

“Perfect,” she said crisply. “And while you're in there, you may as well call the realtor. They have some documents for you to sign.”

“I can't do it this afternoon, I have my,” and here, he stalled out. He didn't want to say it.

Amanda, always and forever his helpful partner, supplied, “Your community service.”

He forced a smile. “Yes.”

“From when you got drunk and decided to to reenact Mortal Kombat with Johnny Lawrence outside a mini mart,” she continued, hand on the door: ready to leave but only after she's given the knife its full rotation.

“Glad you're still having fun with it,” he said, aiming for light – but her expression hardened.

Her hand came off the door and she turned back to him. “I'm not, Daniel, not really. You didn't just embarrass the company last week – you embarrassed your kids.”

His jaw clenched. He kept his voice pleasant, just barely. “Anthony didn't seem embarrassed.”

She ignored that; it was their only tried and true coping mechanism for Anthony. “And now Sam's worried about you.”

“Well – tell her I'm fine, and that she doesn't need to worry. And anyway, I seem to remember her engaging in some pretty similar behavior last year.” He glanced at Amanda's stony stare and straightened up, nodding. “Right, don't compare myself to a seventeen year old. I don't know why I just did that.” He felt like he was unraveling, like any moment now he was going to look down and find he's lost his legs.

“ _Are_ you fine, Daniel?” she asked. The trace of genuine worry in her voice was what was going to finally kill him, he thought.

“Our son's sharing memes of my drunk karate match with his cousins on Facebook, and I'm about to start 100 hours of community service alongside drug addicts, petty criminals, and Johnny Lawrence,” he said. He spread his arms and smiled wide, with teeth. “Amanda, I'm fantastic.”


	2. Day 1

Johnny eased back into his own seat and said, “We should probably get over there. They get kinda bitchy if you're late.”

“Right,” said Daniel. He licked his lips and didn't move.

Johnny narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Or we could just keep making out?”

And like that was some kind of fucked up signal, this was what got Daniel moving. His hand went for the door handle, and he slid quickly out of the car like the engine block had caught fire. Johnny followed more slowly, nonplussed.

Daniel bent his knees and checked his reflection, like his hair being out of place was going to make up for the bruising along his jaw.

The bruises were what started it.

A week ago, Johnny took Daniel back to his place, where they patched each other up (strategic placement of frozen peas and several of his expired ibuprofen), slept until the sun was setting (Daniel said he snored but that was probably just the hangover), and then had sex, twice ( _nice_ ).

Then Daniel went home and they didn't see or speak to each other until the parking lot across from the Public Works office that afternoon. Daniel took one look at Johnny, eyes roving over the shiner, and then pinned him against his car door. At some point they moved things into his car.

As Daniel picked his coffee up from where he'd abandoned it on of the hood, Johnny said, “Your thermos better not have left a scratch on my car.”

“I gave you the car, I'll do what I want with it.”

“Bit old to have a sugar daddy, aren't you?” said a passing guy to Johnny. He elbowed his friend, who laughed.

“I'll show you who's daddy, have you crying it in thirty seconds,” said Johnny, taking a step forward. But the two just shook their heads and kept walking. Yeah, that's what he thought.

When he looked back at Daniel, the other man was staring determinedly at the sky. Like he was questioning God or something. He was so dramatic.

“Let's just – go inside,” said Daniel. “Please.”

They went inside.  
  


* * *

  
“This isn't even that bad,” said Johnny, poking a crumpled McDonald's bag and lifting it into the trash bag. “Sometimes they make you do landscaping work, and if you don't bring your own gloves you're shit out of luck.”

Daniel frowned. “That can't be right. That doesn't sound legal.”

Johnny shrugged.

Daniel's bag was already almost full, like he didn't get that he wouldn't get to go home early if he worked harder. The bright orange reflective vest hung loose from his narrow shoulders; between that and his expression, he looked like a sulky teenager.

“We should get dinner after this,” said Johnny, unthinking. Trash cleanup always made him hungry. It was all the fast food cartons and empty beer cans.

Daniel stiffened slightly. His voice sounded weird when he said, “No, I. I have work to catch up on.”

“At seven at night?” said Johnny skeptically.

“Yes,” he said, defiance creeping into his tone. He stabbed his tool through a – yeah, that was a diaper. “This may shock you, Johnny, but some people have proper jobs that they had to take time off of to come here—”

Johnny wanted to shove his face in the diaper. His grip tightened on the picker. He practiced the breathing Miguel had taught him. When he was done, Daniel was staring over at him.

“Coulda just said you can't, man,” he said, and moved on to the next trash ridden section of roadside.


	3. Days 2 & 3

On Wednesday, Johnny reclined his carseat so he wasn't visible to anyone walking by unless they were looking closely. He waited until he saw Daniel go into the building before he got out and followed.

If LaRusso was going to be weird about it, that was his problem. Johnny didn't do relationship drama.

They spent three hours picking up garbage around Woodley Park, Daniel casting him these long covert looks and then agitatedly spiking litter like he wanted to track down whoever tossed it and knock them out. Johnny ignored him.

He somehow ended up getting into an argument with some guy named Luis over the Chargers. Luis liked the Chargers; Johnny thought anything that came from San Diego was shit. Turned out Luis was from San Diego. Anyway, the supervisor ended up having to intervene.

When they were dropped back off at the Public Works office, Daniel hesitated like he was considering saying something. But in the end he flipped his car keys and walked to his car.

Johnny went home and jerked off, thinking about nothing.  
  


* * *

  
On Friday, Johnny got bored and gave up on his plan to leave Daniel alone. The community service crew was already starting to break into little cliques, and everyone else was at least a decade younger.

They were dumped along Bull Creek, the stretch they tore all the concrete out of about a decade back so it's almost a real river. There were trees and everything.

“Used to race dirtbikes little ways north of here,” he said in passing to Daniel, who startled, looking equally amounts hunted and relieved. “You know, along the control channel? When it rained, you could hydroplane for like a quarter-mile. It was awesome.”

“I remain shocked that you made it to your twenties,” he said after a moment, bone dry.

“Says the guy who did death matches in Okinawa.”

Daniel's head came up. “How did – ” He shut his eyes. “Told you about that in the bar, didn't I.”

“Yeah.” Johnny leaned on his picker. “Sounded fun.”

His eyes came open. “It was _not_ fun.”

“It was a little fun. C'mon, man, admit it.”

Anyway, they ended up making out behind a bush, Daniel pressing his face into Johnny's neck like he wanted to memorize where the stubble began, his deceptively strong hands pinning Johnny's hips, holding one or both of them back.


	4. The Weekend

It no longer hurts when he breathes in too deeply, and the bruising on his face has turned to an ugly yellow that looks more like a skin condition than the results of a run-in with a fist. Bit by bit the night of his arrest is fading and healing, time taking all things in an equal opportunity grab. At some point in the future, Daniel knows the day will come where he wakes up and does not immediately think about it. He has to believe this is true.

Saturdays in his new place are still a little rough. The rhythm that controls his work week is absent, and in all that extra time he finds himself pacing the rooms; the kids' bedrooms, with their strange bare walls and unsettlingly neat beds that have barely been slept in; the living room with the massive couch no one else has ever sat on; the kitchen that doesn't have any of his favorite specialty pans because he has no one to cook for. The only room he doesn't walk through is his bedroom, because he's been having trouble sleeping, and he read an article on sleep hygiene that convinced him he should avoid so much as even _looking_ at the bed before ten at night.

(Johnny's bed looked like he hosted neighborhood poker nights around it, but that man probably has no trouble sleeping. Life was unfair.)

He reads until it's noon and then he goes for a long run on the beach. He runs until his legs are shaky and the ache in his chest is back, until his mind is blissfully empty of everything but the crashing of the waves.  
  


* * *

  
He drives around a while, listening to some college game on the radio and getting almost invested when halftime arrives. He realizes he is avoiding his apartment; he's not oblivious, he just doesn't know what to do about it.

He thinks about texting Johnny. He drives out to the dojo instead.

He can breathe more easily there, on familiar ground that hasn't changed much in thirty-five years. This is a place that preceded everything else in his life, and it only ever belonged to him – first him and Mr. Miyagi, then him and his students. This is a place he can understand himself.

He meditates for a while and then he goes through the kata. When the sun sets, he lights some lamps and waits as long as he can before going home.  
  


* * *

  
Another college game on, the television this time. He has had three martinis. He has spent two hours staring at people's Instagrams. A guy he used to know from PTA meetings has grown his hair out and is now wearing it in one of those silly bun things. For some reason he feels the need to text disparagingly about it to Johnny, who does not and never will know the man in question.

And Johnny doesn't respond.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel wakes up with a sore neck and sandpaper tongue. He takes his recycling out so he doesn't have to spend the whole day looking at the bottle he polished off the night before. He vacuums and cleans his bathroom and kitchen sink. He does laundry. He sorts out the shirts he'll need to drop at the dry cleaners. He stands staring at the bare walls of Anthony's room while drinking green tea for his hangover, and by the time the cup is empty he has decided he is going to paint it.

He is pulling on his jacket when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

From Johnny, fourteen hours after he texted him the night before: _what are you doing_

Daniel runs his tongue over the back of his teeth and gives a slight incredulous laugh into the air of his empty apartment. This guy, this fucking guy. Well, Daniel's not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he's bothered.

 _Going to the hardware store,_ he writes out shortly. And then, because he figures context is always important: _Need to buy some paint._

 _Great_ , replies Johnny, who has suddenly learned to respond in a timely fashion, look at that. _Pick me up, I need to buy a couple quarts of oil for the car._

This fucking guy.  
  


* * *

  
“So what color paint you getting?” asked Johnny, trailing behind him in the store, hands in pockets. He's wearing the same shirt he wore Friday.

“I ah, I hadn't decided. It's for Anthony's room.” He realizes he has no idea what Anthony's favorite color is and desperately hopes Johnny won't ask.

“Go for black. Like, jet black. That way it'll stay dark, and he'll sleep more.”

Daniel shook his head. “You think that's what I want? He's not a newborn I'm trying to placate.”

“Well, fine. What color does the kid like?”

Daniel studies the wall of color swatches with a close eye and does not respond. After a moment, Johnny wanders off to find his motor oil.

Back in the car, Daniel sets his two gallons of Flamingo's Dream – yeah, no idea – down in the trunk. He gets in behind the wheel and says before he can stop himself, “So you didn't respond to my text last night,” and then promptly wants to stamp his foot on the gas and drive the car into the parking lot light post to distract them both.

Johnny stops shaking Daniel's container of gum tablets and looks confused for a second before his face clears. “Oh, I didn't see that until this afternoon. And then when I clicked the link my phone freaked out. You sending me spam?” he asks, suddenly suspicious. “Miguel warned me about clicking links sent over text.”

Daniel can only shake his head, wordless.

He drives Johnny back to his apartment complex; Johnny waves a quart of motor oil at him in presumable thanks. Daniel drives back to his own apartment. No matter what he does, he ends up back here. He hauls the gallons of Flamingo's Dream into Anthony's room, sets them down, and decides all at once he cannot possibly paint the room that day.

He takes a shower, thinking about how he and Johnny hadn't so much as touched once earlier. He feels – he can admit it, in here, by himself – really fucking confused.

He's so confused all the time now.


	5. Days 4 & 5

On Monday afternoon when Johnny showed up, Daniel was already waiting outside by the van with the rest of the “volunteer” workers. There was this tiny woman talking to him, and he kept nodding along and giving quick, short replies, his mouth flattening into a grimace of a smile the woman didn't seem to pick up on. So Johnny walked over and feinted at him.

Daniel ducked, eyes blazing wide. His hands came up half a second later. “Johnny, what the _hell_.”

“You were better in the commercials,” said the woman, turning away. Johnny dropped out of position. He shoved his hands in his pockets, the universal sign for peace, or it should be.

“Who's your fan?” he asked, and Daniel let his hands fall back to his sides, but slowly, like he wasn't sure it was such a good idea.

“Name's Kathy. She recognized me, yeah. And for some reason she decided I needed a recap of every single commercial she's ever seen me in.” He glanced narrowly over at her turned back. “I don't think she even owns a car.”

“Sounds like plastering the valley with images of your face wasn't such a good idea,” said Johnny.

He rolled his eyes. “Right. I should have foreseen the moment when I needed to keep a low profile in my chain gang. How stupid of me.”

Johnny kind of wanted to punch him, the way he always did when Daniel used that particular tone, but like – in the arm. He settled for standing close enough for their shoulders to brush, watching his throat move in an swallow.

He hoped they were dropped somewhere with trees.  
  


* * *

  
On Wednesday, they have to drag a queen mattress away from under an overpass.

“This can't be right,” said Daniel, angling his face away. “We should be wearing face masks, _something_. I'd talk to city council if that didn't mean having to admit I was here doing this.”

“Well, I don't see any blood stains,” said Johnny, ignoring the priss talk in favor of tipping the mattress onto its side and studying it. “So this isn't a murder mattress. It's probably just something the homeless use.” He didn't really get why they couldn't just leave it be. It's not like anyone came down this way for picnics.

“Jesus, Johnny, don't put your face so close to it.”

Daniel won't touch him that day, which: whatever.  
  


* * *

  
He figured they were both men who understood rules – the concept of them, if not always the obeying part. So the sooner he figured out what the rules were, the quicker they could find a rhythm. Then Daniel would stop looking so stressed and tired, and Johnny could stop giving condolences to his dick.

He wished it was as simple as before, when they were fighting. Karate made everything between them make more sense, but he didn't think they were supposed to punch their way out of this thing.

He didn't know a lot, but he knew that much.


	6. Day 6

On Friday after trash pickup, Johnny forgot himself and hooked a finger in Daniel's belt as he was walking to his car. Overly-familiar and a little possessive, the way Johnny always got with his women, and the other man's surprised look maybe should've warned him off. But it was too late to take it back.

He pulled and they fell back against the trunk of the Challenger, Daniel crowding into the space Johnny made for him like a man stepping off a cliff, his hips fitting between his hands neatly as any woman's waist.

The hard fist Daniel made in his hair to direct his head down caused something inside Johnny go still, wary-still, and then he was glad for the solid bulk of the car behind them because he felt like he might shake into pieces. Daniel's body was a demanding line thrumming like an exposed wire against him and his mouth was hot and slick and _ready_ – he was always so fucking ready for it, how had Johnny never guessed about all this before?

“Motherfuckers, get a room,” shouted Skylar from the work crew, passing by. “Every fucking day with this shit!”

“He's right,” said Daniel, tearing his mouth away. “We shouldn't – do this here. Jesus, it's broad daylight—”

“They give us trouble, we can totally take them,” said Johnny, though something uneasy twisted in his stomach when he finally glanced around and realized, yeah, it really was the middle of the afternoon. And this wasn't exactly West Hollywood.

Daniel's hands tightened on his shoulders, drawing Johnny's gaze again. His eyes were dark and intent, like he'd made up his mind about something. “No, I mean – we should get a room. Let's get a room.”

Johnny felt his brow crinkle. “LaRusso, the commute's not that bad, let's just—”

Daniel cut him off with a kiss. “Room service,” he said, biting at his lips, “and neither of us have to clean afterwards.” And when Johnny still hesitated, wondering about what _cleaning_ had to do with anything, he added with a persuasive press of his hips, “C'mon Johnny, it's Friday night.”

Which made it sound a little like a date, which meant Johnny was back to not understanding the rules here. But he had Daniel between his legs, acting like he wanted to stay there, so –

“Yeah, yes,” he said, hand sliding into Daniel's back pocket, because he figured he was allowed. “Let's get a room.”


	7. The Day of Days

Johnny said he'd meet Daniel there, partly because he had a thing about taking his own car, but mostly because this way he could stop off and buy a half-pint of vodka on the way. It was one of those things that didn't feel quite deliberate, more like an unthinking necessity akin to getting gas than a choice he was actively making.

He generally tried to limit that kind of thing these days, but no way was he going into this sober.

He drummed his hands on the steering wheel as he made his way to the address Daniel texted. He had no opinions about the choice of hotel, regardless of how Daniel padded the text with a paragraph of blow-by-blow reasoning about why he'd chosen it over another. Christ, if Johnny hadn't already known the man had an ego the size of Los Angeles, that would've confirmed it; imagine assuming anyone would want to fuck you after a text like that.

Things were feeling weirder by the minute. He was pretending not to notice.

He finished off the vodka while sitting in the hotel parking lot, staring up at the Holiday Inn Express sign. It was probably weird, he thought, that this would feel more familiar if they were doing it out back behind the dumpsters. Something about getting a room unsettled him. It felt less casual than they'd been, and somehow both more and less intimate. He couldn't wrap his head around it and time was running out.

Text from Daniel: a room number. Jesus.

Johnny manned up and went inside the hotel. He snagged a peppermint from the lobby counter on his way to the elevator.

He tapped a beat on his legs on the ride up, eyes on the flickering floor number. His hands felt shaky like he hadn't just taken care of that problem down in the parking lot with the liquor. The right floor arrived both too soon and not soon enough; part of him wanted to stay in the elevator, let the doors close again and take him where it would. He stepped out instead.

He got to the right room, 402, and stood staring down at the Do Not Disturb sign dangling from the door handle. That was probably not meant for him.

He knocked. He glanced down the long hallway, feeling like there was a person glued to a peephole behind every door.

Daniel opened the door. He was already down to his boxers and undershirt. Feet bare; he had a tan line on his ankles. Behind him, his button-down and slacks were hanging up, and Johnny couldn't even summon any mockery about that, because Daniel's shoulders were a tense, determined line beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

They stared at each other, and then Daniel stepped back. Johnny stepped forward.

The door closed.

He hauled his flannel off and let it drop to the floor, but before he could grab the bottom of his shirt to finish the job, Daniel's hands were on him, steering him to the bed and shoving him down. He crawled onto his lap, entirely matter-of-fact and for some reason that was hot? He made quick work of stripping Johnny's shirt over his head.

Johnny's hands fell to the bare legs straddling his hips, processing the unfamiliar feeling of leg hair and whipcord muscle beneath his palms. His grip tightened and then Daniel was kissing him backwards onto the mattress.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Fuck_ ,” said Daniel, head thumping back on the pillow.

“Yeah,” agreed Johnny, hands busy covertly sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers. The feeling of Daniel's skin was doing strange things to his head.

“No, I – forgot the condoms.”

“You worried about getting pregnant?” he asked, and then: “ _Ow_ , hey, we're going to be using that in a few minutes,” because Daniel had kneed him lightly in the crotch.

“Please tell me I don't need to give a quick rundown on basic sexual health practices,” said Daniel, “Please tell me you understand the importance of condoms, Johnny, please tell me—”

“Jesus, I'm clean,” he said, momentarily giving up on the boxers so he could prop himself up on his elbows and stare down at him incredulously. “I haven't hooked up with anyone in a year except with _you_ two weeks ago, and I'm assuming you weren't banging anyone but your wife, so what's the problem here?”

“You could've just said that in the first place,” muttered Daniel a few seconds later.

“Can we fuck now, or do you want to haul out the overhead projector and continue your lecture?”

And then, half worried about calling the possibility into reality, Johnny hurriedly kissed him again. Strike first or strike out, he figured.  
  


* * *

  
And then they were both naked and it was awesome, and Daniel was insanely flexible, because karate made everything better, and—

“Would you relax?” said Johnny, because he had two fingers in him but didn't think he could move them without risking amputation.

“I am relaxed,” snapped Daniel.

“I think I'm losing circulation in my index finger. What's the use of all your mindfulness crap if you can't loosen up and get fucked like a man?”

“Have you considered that the problem might not be me? You sure you're doing that right?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Daniel jumped on that. “What's that mean, probably?”

“Not like I've done this before,” he said without thinking. Then he sighed, because—

“What do you mean, you've never done this before,” demanded Daniel, knees collapsing and forcing Johnny's fingers out. Those hard-won inches, lost in a moment. The beach at Normandy had nothing on this guy's asshole.

“You said you were bisexual. You said it like it was no big deal!”

“It isn't a big deal. I've known since I was fourteen.” And spent the next two decades thinking he'd get sick and die if he kissed another guy. “It's just, women are easier. I mean, look at you. We had to _duel_ before you put out.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. Johnny had never had someone look so suspicious while he was between their legs. “Johnny,” he said slowly. “You have been with another man before, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” He traded hand jobs with a guy in Tijuana one time. But he was pretty drunk and didn't really remember it. That was eleven years ago.

He glanced down to where his fingers were still hovering in the go position. Generally at this point, with a woman, Johnny'd help move things along with his tongue. But no way was he putting his mouth down _there_.

“Yeah, that's enough of that,” said Daniel, and before Johnny could work out what he meant – that he'd changed his mind and was going to leave, or maybe wanted to top, which: right, they would have to haggle over that – he tightened his knees around Johnny and flipped them.

Johnny blinked up at him and then at his right hand where it was pinned to the mattress. Daniel was a hot weight shifting over his dick and – “I'm cool with this,” he decided.

“Wasn't really giving you the option,” said Daniel, and Johnny's dick twitched.

Daniel released his wrists but Johnny kept them there, watching dry-mouthed as the other man reached behind himself. He could tell the moment Daniel pushed in – his thighs tensed around Johnny and his bottom lip disappeared under his teeth. His chest rose and fell and Johnny matched his breathing automatically, like they were doing one of Daniel's partner katas.

Daniel pushed up onto his knees, the muscles in his thighs trembling minutely. He pressed a hand flat to Johnny's chest, less for balance, maybe, than a greedy desire to feel how his heart was pounding.

He started to lower himself on his dick, and Johnny's hands clapped down, fingers curling tight around the backs of his knees, urging him on.

They didn't speak again for a long time.


	8. Day 6, Part III

Daniel was in the shower and Johnny was victoriously dozing when the cellphone on the side table rang. He thought about letting it just go, but the ringtone was more irritating than usual and anyway, there was always a chance it might be Miguel or Robby.

He reached out, swiped, and fitted the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

Silence, and then: “Um, hello?”

It was a girl's voice, very familiar. Johnny looked at the phone, the smiling brunette on the screen, and absorbed for the first time that it was not his, at which point he ended the call and dropped it on the mattress like it was radioactive. It immediately started ringing again, so he put a pillow over it.

He really needed to remember to look at the screen first.

Daniel came out of the bathroom in his boxers, wet hair raked back from his forehead. He paused as Johnny got up from the bed, expression watchful, but Johnny only said:

“Your phone rang,” and then he escaped into the bathroom for a shower of his own.  
  


* * *

  
He half-expected Daniel to be ready to throw down when he got back out; either throw down or bone down, but definitely one of the two. What he didn't expect was to step out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips and find the other man back in his shirt and slacks, his hair combed neatly into place.

He sat on the edge of the bed, not caring if the towel gaped open.

“We getting take out instead of room service?” he asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew what was happening here. But it was often easier to play dumb.

Daniel tipped his chin up to – yeah, he was going all the way with that shirt. Full buttons. Be more predictable, man, Johnny thought.

“I can't stay,” said Daniel.

He gave his appearance one last check in the mirror and turned to Johnny. If he was bothered by having to call his daughter back and explain who was on the phone before and why, he was doing a great job of hiding it. Except for the whole leaving part.

Was this a passive-aggressive thing? Johnny should have been able to tell after so long with Shannon, surely.

Except then Daniel stepped forward and straddled him again, his stupid chinos against Johnny's shower-warm skin, and kissed him deep. Johnny's arms came around him automatically, and he was just thinking about rolling them over into the messy sheets when Daniel broke away.

“I have the kids this weekend. Have to go pick them up for dinner.” His breathing was not quite steady, but his voice sounded eerily normal.

“Oh. Okay.” Johnny glanced down at the half-interested dick ruining the line of Daniel's slacks. “Uh. Why did you get the room then?”

Daniel frowned, doing a good job of looking puzzled. “Cleaning and room service, remember?” He eased back off Johnny's lap and tugged his shirt into place.

Johnny rested on his elbows. “Why do I feel like a prostitute right now?” he wondered aloud. But like one of those nice ones you get in Vegas, obviously.

Daniel actually _laughed_. “Johnny, I thought it'd be nice, that you'd like it. You don't have to stay if you don't want.” He checked his smartwatch. He actually checked his fucking watch. “Okay, I have to run.”

“Uh huh. You do that, man.” Johnny rolled over and looked for the remote. Place probably had HBO, he might as well check what was on.

“Johnny,” and now the tone changed, sharpened. “It's my kids. What are you expecting me to do here.”

Jesus. Johnny found the remote and waved it at him. “I'm not expecting anything, dude. You seem to be scripting the drama out real well all by yourself there. Don't let me cramp your style.”

“What the hell does – look, you know what? I really do have to go now, Sam's waiting.” Daniel paused and watched him for a moment longer, chewing on his lower lip. He sighed. “See you later, I guess.”

Johnny settled back against the headboard. “See ya.”

After he left, Johnny didn't actually spend much more time in the room; it smelled of them and anyway, all HBO was showing on a Friday night were reruns of some boring show about people in therapy, and Johnny had enough of other people's problems for the day.


	9. The Weekend

“Wow,” says Anthony, turning in place to survey the living room. “It's so _small_.”

Sam smacks him.

“Hey, none of that,” says Daniel. To his son, he says gamely, “This place is like – twice as big as our first apartment was when your grandma and I moved out here. Count your blessings.”

What he will pay in rent for this place over the course of a year would've been a handsome down-payment on a house back then. Sometimes he wonders if he and Amanda have done something wrong by Anthony. Looking at the skeptical expression on his face, Daniel thinks there's a very good chance of it.

“Okay,” he says briskly, carrying the groceries over into the kitchen. “Why don't you guys find your bedrooms, get comfortable, and I'll start dinner?”

He immerses himself in the welcome routine of unpacking the groceries – the fridge looking properly full for the first time since he moved in – and dicing some onion and garlic. After a few minutes, Sam wanders down the hallway and perches on a stool at the kitchen counter. Daniel doesn't have yet have a table or chairs; he needs to remedy that, he thinks absently. Maybe this weekend he'll take the kids shopping, get them to help him pick something nice out.

Sam fiddles with her phone and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, um, that was – Sensei Lawrence, on the phone earlier. Wasn't it?”

Daniel tosses the onion in the heated pan and listens with satisfaction to the sizzle. “You don't have to call him that. He's not a sensei anymore, no more than I am.”

“I mean – Dad. You'll always be my sensei.” Daniel glances over his shoulder with a smile that hopefully doesn't look as surprised as it feels. It's hard to hang onto it when she continues, “So are you spending a lot of time with him?”

“Well,” he says, fighting to sound normal, like it's not humiliating to discuss one's community service with one's daughter. “I have seventy-six hours left to complete, so – don't really have a whole lot of choice in the matter.”

Sam's brow wrinkles and for a terrifying moment she looks exactly like her mother at her most perceptive.

Daniel tears open a packet of skirt steak. “Don't worry about it, Sam. We're getting along fine, nothing's going to happen.” Nothing else, he should probably say. But that somehow feels like it would be a greater lie.

“ _DAD_!”

He and Sam both wince. Anthony is going to have to learn that an apartment building means neighbors, means shouting at the top of one's lungs is not acceptable behavior.

“Why is there a bunch of pink paint in my closet?” continues Anthony.  
  


* * *

  
On Saturday, Daniel wakes up jackknifed across his bed, his head buried beneath his pillow and his right knee hitched up towards his hip. He tries straightening his legs and is reminded of what he did the day before with an immediacy that makes his breath catch in his chest.

His dick is hard, edging towards uncomfortable pinned between his bladder and the mattress. He knows he should get up and go take care of it in the bathroom, but he doesn't move. In the morning light, his white sheets are warm like another person had been there. There's an unreal quality to it, the bed a liminal space where nothing counts.

He rubs his face against his pillow and slowly, almost tentatively rolls his hips against the mattress. The ache inside him flares to life, and Daniel squeezes his eyes shut. He has to bite his fist against a groan.

He doesn't stop. He drops his free hand down, wriggles it under his body to cup himself, hand squeezing hot and clumsy with sleep. He breathes in, and out, mind skimming the surface of the moment, gliding along a current of terror and unstoppable want, and then he deliberately clenches down _hard_ , the sore muscles in his thighs and ass tensing and releasing as he fucks the absence there, the pain of pleasure remembered.

He drags his face up and rests on his forehead, his breath coming raggedly as he moves more desperately against the mattress.

In the quiet stillness of the room he sounds so loud, the way he always feels too loud when he's alone, alone when he doesn't want to be. His mind grasps for the phantom sensation of a body beneath him, over him, inside him, and he wants it so bad he thinks he's going to sob.

His dick presses up tight against his stomach, his control flexing and starting to fall apart and—

“ – well, I don't want cereal, _Samantha_ , that's all we ever have at home anymore. I want waffles. Dad!”

Daniel's blood runs cold. He rolls over, bringing his sheets and blanket around his body in one swift move just in time for Anthony to knock his door open and poke his head in. He blinks at Daniel, who tries to look less wild-eyed than he feels, cocooned ridiculously like it's the middle of winter.

“Can you make waffles?” asks Anthony, oblivious.

Daniel clears his throat. “I don't have a waffle iron.” Fuck, his voice sounds wrecked. He glances over Anthony's shoulder to Sam, who is hovering half in the shadow of the hallway, looking uncertain. He clears his throat again. “But I can make pancakes? You guys want pancakes?”

They have pancakes.  
  


* * *

  
On Sunday, Daniel and Sam leave Anthony behind in the apartment playing some game Daniel hadn't the heart to learn the name and details of, and they went shopping for furniture.

“I don't mind eating at the counter,” says Sam. “It's kind of like eating at a diner. It's fun.”

What's more fun than getting to a place in life where you can wear $200 trousers while pretending to be a fry cook for one's children?

“That's the novelty talking,” says Daniel, holding open the door of the store for her. “Trust me, we'll want a table. Where else will I help you guys with your math homework and stuff?”

Sam folds her arms and gives him a look just inside the store. “You really going to help me with Calculus, Dad?”

Daniel ignores this and looks around. “How do you feel about oak? Think that would go with the flooring?”

They wander the store for over an hour, not too concerned with the time. Sam finds the retro corner on the second floor and becomes enamored with a hideous mod armchair, and it takes all of his willpower to resist buying it for her just to see her smile.

He settles on a simple round cherry table with matching chairs and carries the tag to the register to arrange for delivery. He leans his elbow on the counter and watches Sam flop down on one of the sectionals across the room. She takes out her phone and her eyes light up at whatever is there waiting for her.

“Looks like we can have it there by end of the day tomorrow,” says the saleswoman, drawing his attention. “Does that work?”

“Yes, great,” he says automatically. He flips open his wallet and something clatters to floor between his feet. He glances down, feels something in him stutter, and then looks up again quick to cover the moment. He hands over his American Express.

When the woman turns to run the card, he bends down and picks up the hotel key card. He runs a finger over its edge absently and then slides it into his pocket as she turns back around with a smile and receipt for him to sign.

“All good?” asks Sam, appearing at his side.

“All good,” he replies. He doesn't remember what the table cost, or the details of the delivery schedule, or what the saleswoman looked like.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel keeps the hotel key. He tucks it back in his wallet between his medical insurance and spare business card. It's easy, not thinking about why; despite the way his body aches in unfamiliar places, it's easy.

Before he bumped into Johnny again after decades and subsequently destroyed his marriage, Daniel had been very good at compartmentalizing. It feels a little like regaining some part of himself, some measure of control, to be able to do it successfully now.


	10. Days 7 & 8

On Monday, his day up in the Hills went long: a simple paint job transformed by the discovery of dry rot beneath the siding on a garage, and he decided he couldn't cut out – he needed the money too badly. That was the straightforward part.

The messy part was the several minutes he spent standing beside his open trunk, ignoring his tools in favor of staring at his phone like a damn teenager.

He couldn't work out if he was supposed to text Daniel a heads-up, or something. The man was so jumpy, he'd likely interpret a no-show by Johnny as some big, dramatic thing in response to whatever the hell happened on Friday in the hotel. Of course, he might think that anyway, even if Johnny did text him. Or Johnny was overthinking this whole thing, and Daniel wouldn't give a fuck because they were both _men_.

Fuck it. Johnny shoved his phone back in his pocket and reached for his tools. If Daniel wanted to interpret his silence that way, let him. That was his problem. Nothing to do with Johnny.

“ _Christ_ ,” said Johnny, disgusted. He slammed his trunk shut and got the fuck on with it.  
  


* * *

  
On Wednesday he walked up to the crew waiting by the van and did his best not to look too wary when Daniel met his eyes.

But the other man only nodded at him – acted totally normal and cool, which made Johnny more suspicious, if he was being honest. He's seen Daniel LaRusso fake a credible normal with a jail guard while blitzed half out of his mind. A calm demeanor meant nothing.

Except Daniel didn't say anything about his absence Monday while they rode out in the van, shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh. They were doing pick-up along the 405 during rush hour that day, so trying to talk was a bit like holding a conversation standing behind a jet with all engines firing. And there wasn't any place they could step behind for a bit and communicate in the other way.

Still, even if they weren't talking, they stuck sort of close to one another. When Johnny finished a section, he looked up to find Daniel waiting for him; he'd point with his picker at some spot twenty yards away, and Johnny would nod. They walked together.

When Johnny glanced at him, Daniel offered a half-smile. He thought there was maybe some tension around his eyes, but you couldn't be sure about that kind of thing just in glancing, and Johnny wasn't about to stop and stare into the other man's big brown eyes like a moron next to speeding traffic.

On the ride back to the Public Works office, Daniel put a hand on his thigh. Johnny didn't flinch in surprise, but it was a near thing.

“I have to work tonight,” said Daniel, as if they hadn't been mostly not-talking for four hours.

“Okay,” said Johnny, nodding out the window of the van. He considered the hand on his leg and said, “I, uh – I had to, on Monday. That's why. You know.” He kept nodding, like one of those lame bobble toys people mess up perfectly good dashboards with.

“Okay,” said Daniel and he sounded so _easy_ about it, Johnny wanted to tackle him off the seat.

He looked away from the window and met his eyes. They stared at each other; Daniel's hand tightened and Johnny looked away again.

Jesus, he could go for a beer, he thought.

He absolutely was not retreating as he walked over to his car, hearing Daniel's footsteps right behind him and refusing to slow down. If it was a retreat, he would not turn immediately at Daniel's _hey_ , and he wouldn't stand there as Daniel put a hand in his hair and licked into his mouth like he was claiming something.

“See you Friday,” said Daniel, stepping back.

Johnny was going to kill him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”


	11. Day 9, Part I

On Friday Johnny spent thirty minutes explaining to Luis all the deficiencies that made up the Chargers' offensive line and how they were going to bring shame to all of Southern California in that night's home game against the Raiders. Luis called him a pendejo, which he understood, and added chinga tu madre, which he didn't but could guess.

“I didn't know you were that into football, Johnny,” said Daniel, once the supervisor intervened and the danger of bloodshed had passed. He was half-heartedly dragging his garbage bag behind him and kept squinting against the afternoon son like he had a hangover.

“What? Oh. I'm not really.”

Daniel frowned. “Then why – ”

“It's something to do.” He shrugged, not really knowing how to explain what he meant. There was something reassuring about the familiarity and ease of football trash talk. He knew he could step into a bar anywhere in the country and rile some guys up. It was almost like knowing people.

Daniel probably wouldn't get that, though.

“Well, I was thinking,” said Daniel casually, way too casually, “if you _were_ that invested in watching the Chargers disappoint the city tonight, maybe you could – come over.” He piked a waterlogged plastic bag and studied it for a hard moment before putting it in his bag. He wasn't looking at Johnny, but his ears were kinda red.

“Come over,” repeated Johnny.

“Yeah, you know. I'd cook dinner, we'd watch the game.”

And we'd screw each other's brains out, he didn't add, but Johnny figured that was included. It was like trying to understand a foreign language, or a guy with a really, really thick accent.

“And we'd do this... at your place.” And when Daniel nodded, he said, “But I thought you—”

“What?” said Daniel, too fast and honestly? Kind of hostile.

Johnny narrowed his eyes. “Nothing, never mind.”

“What kind of food are you in the mood for?” he continued, determined.

He was out of his depth here. “I guess I could go for some pizza or something.”

“Pizza,” said Daniel, nodding slowly. “I'll have to pick up some yeast from the store, but yeah, I can do that.”

Johnny wisely said nothing. He had no idea what Daniel was talking about, and he hadn't ruled out the possibility that he was secretly insane.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel lived in one of those newer luxury apartment blocks that looked like they'd been designed by a toddler who only just started grasping the concept of shapes and had decided rectangles were the best. Slap some alternating-colored sheathing on the outside of the building, give every apartment a cramped little patch of concrete and call it a balcony, and then charge $5000 a month. Johnny's barely got plumbing and still thinks he's being screwed less than these people.

“Does this building have one of those stupid hip names too?” he asked Daniel, automatically reaching out to grab the grocery bags so the man could his free his hands up and locate his keys. “You know, like Velocity or Elysium or something?”

To his surprise, Daniel's mouth twitched in a smile as he glanced back at him. “You are currently standing in The Foundry.”

“Named after the factory that used to be here, I'm guessing.”

“They wanted to honor the site's history,” said Daniel solemnly and unlocked the door.  
  


* * *

  
As Daniel sorted his groceries and muttered to himself about not having a container to put his fancy freeze-dried instant yeast in, Johnny wandered the apartment and tried not to feel out of place.

Daniel hadn't put anything up on his walls yet; a few frames were on the ground, tilted against the wall. The whole place felt weirdly temporary. It wasn't all that different than a hotel room, actually.

He nudged open the door to one of the bedrooms and called out, “Still haven't painted your kid's room, huh. You know, I could – ” He stopped and cocked his head, tipping the can slightly with his foot to get a look at it. “Wait, LaRusso, is this _pink_?”

Daniel's sigh was audible from the kitchen. A few moments later, he appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He looked faintly harassed. “It's not pink, everyone keeps saying that, but it's – look, it's a dusky red, okay?"

“Everyone,” said Johnny. “You mean your kid called it pink too. And you're just going to go ahead with it anyway?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do with it, alright. As you can see, I haven't exactly started.” He waved at the white walls, looking dissatisfied.

Johnny glanced around. “Yeah, noticed that. You haven't taped or primed.”

“Primer, right.” Daniel nodded, looking down at the paint. “Always forget the primer.”

He hesitated. “I could run to the store, get the stuff. You know, since your weird pizza is going to take three hours or whatever.”

For some reason, Daniel looked on the verge of being spooked. Like Johnny offering to go to the hardware store was some kind of a secret code: buy some paint tape for a guy and it means you're going steady? Or did he think this was an insult to his manhood or something?

But in the end, Daniel only said, “Sure,” and “you do that and I'll start the dough.”  
  


* * *

  
For a meal that involved waiting around for dough to rise, there wasn't a lot of downtime. Johnny sat at the kitchen table and drank a beer while Daniel chopped and diced and sauteed and generally made a lot of dirty dishes. When the tomatoes came out, he had to put his foot down and say something.

“You're making the sauce too? Couldn't you just throw some Ragu on there?”

“I'm going to pretend you did not just say that,” said Daniel. He was wearing an apron folded over around his hips like a toolbelt, and Johnny thought about pulling on the strings approximately twice a minute.

“Here,” said Daniel, setting a block of cheese and a box grater down in front of him on the table. “Be useful.”

Johnny absently curled a hand around the back of his knee for a second before releasing him. “Is that why I'm here, to be useful?”

“You didn't think it was just for sex, right?” To his credit, Daniel sounded perfectly at ease when he said it. It made Johnny want to shove the grater to the side and drag him down onto the polished surface of the table.

Instead, he finished his beer and picked up the cheese. “Guess I thought you were just really into football, man.”


	12. Day 9, Part II

The pizza was kind of amazing, though Johnny was reluctant on principle to admit it as much to Daniel.

“Wasn't expecting the little kick to the pepper,” he said, helping himself to a second slice.

“What, never have peperoncini on a pizza before?” And when Johnny just shrugged, Daniel said, “When's the last time you even had a homecooked meal?”

“Happens more often than you'd think, actually,” he said. “People like to feed me. No idea why.”

Daniel's face took on a complicated expression, one Johnny was starting to recognize as the look he got when he wanted to kiss Johnny and was sort of mad about it (because Daniel couldn't do anything without making it into a fight with somebody).

“It's because you're a grown man who eats like a first year college student,” said Daniel.

“Says the guy who's eating pizza,” he pointed out.

“Don't say it like that, like this is Domino's or something. It's not remotely the same thing.”

And yeah, it really wasn't. Johnny finished his second piece and reached for a third. He let his feet slide over and trap one of Daniel's beneath the table, and they both pretended it wasn't happening. Daniel couldn't meet his eyes for a couple minutes, but Johnny thought maybe it wasn't in a bad way. He hoped it wasn't.

After dinner, Daniel made him load the dishwasher. Johnny just barely had the sense not to talk up the advantages of paper plates while he did it, because he wasn't an idiot and wanted to actually get laid that night.

Daniel sat on a counter stool with his prissy homemade martini and watched him do it, providing helpful commentary like “glasses in the top” and “you have to rinse that” and “that needs to be hand-washed” like, Jesus. He never understood the point of these things, you end up doing nearly most of the work just loading it. But he kept up until he'd finished and the Daniel LaRusso kitchen was restored to its former pristine condition.

Then he rounded the counter and picked Daniel up.

“Oh – _hell_ no,” said Daniel, and he did something that twisted himself out of the fireman's carry.

“You're no fun,” he said and crowded the other man backwards until they were in the living room and he could press him into the couch.

“You have a funny definition of fun. You pick a guy up and I don't know whether to expect a fight or what.”

Johnny kneeled before him, hands tugging at his stupid shirt until it was untucked from his stupid slacks. “Why would I try fighting you now?”

“Everything's always gotta be a fight with you,” said Daniel, shoving Johnny's flannel off his shoulders as he ran his mouth. His eyes were very dark.

“Yeah, but we just ate.” He sat back on his heels and hauled his T-shirt over his head.

“Didn't know you were one to follow the thirty minute rule. Johnny,” he said, voice catching slightly as he reached and undid Daniel's belt, “what are you doing?”

He looked up and hoped he was hiding his nerves better than he felt. Starting things was always weird at first. “I was going to give you a blowjob, but if you really want, I guess we could keep having this stupid conversation.”

“I don't remember what we were talking about,” admitted Daniel. He slouched deeper into the couch and put a hand in Johnny's hair. He raised his eyebrows. “So, uh. Continue.”

What a prick. Johnny shook his head, mostly at himself, and bent his head over the other man's lap.

He blew Daniel and then spent forty minutes with the man in his lap and his tongue down his throat, receiving the most torturous, teasing hand job given out this side of the Viagra drug trials. They never did turn on the game. And when it got late, and Johnny realized he hadn't had more than a couple beers and was good to drive, Daniel put a hand on his arm, took a step towards his bedroom, and said:

“Stay.”


	13. The Weekend, Part I

Daniel wakes up and for the first time in a month, he does not think about the night he was thrown in jail, because for the first time in much longer than that, he does not wake up alone.  
  


* * *

  
It comes in stages, like a series of clues his mind has to assemble before it can solve the mystery of waking: the broad rib cage under his hand, the hairy leg the top of his foot is pressed against. The hand that curls over the crux of his neck and shoulder and the voice that says:

“Daniel, man, I've had to piss for like twenty minutes.”

He mumbles and shuffles back a few inches and pulls a pillow over his face for good measure. It's so, so bright. He needs to buy better blinds; he needs the cover.  
  


* * *

  
His eyes flutter open to an expanse of chest covered in faded legends of hard rock. (Alright, so he immediately recognizes them: Van Halen, Hagar era. What of it?)

He sighs and rubs his face against his erstwhile pillow, and Johnny whole-body twitches because, right, he'd discovered the man was kind of ticklish last week. If his alarm was going off, he might do something about that, but instead he only slings a leg over the other man's and goes back to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Johnny's got a hand clamped hard around the back of his upper thigh, urging him on as he rocks slightly against him, riding his leg. At some point the pleasure tips his consciousness over into waking and his scrabbles for something to grip – the front of Johnny's shirt, his hip. He tips his forehead against the man's shoulder and gasps.

“Thank god,” says Johnny. “You always sleep like the dead on weekends?” He doesn't wait for a response, or maybe it was a rhetorical question. He only slips his hand under the waistband of Daniel's pajamas, reclaiming the thigh and questing further. He pauses.

“Yeah?” he says into Daniel's ear, low.

Fuck. He –

“Yeah,” says Daniel, mindlessly hitching his knee up over Johnny's hip, making space, opening himself up. “Yeah, yes, c'mon.”

And it's somehow much easier this time, maybe because he's boneless from the – he spies the clock on his nightstand over Johnny's shoulder and it nearly throws him out of the moment, because it's almost ten. He slept for _eleven hours_.

But then Johnny's fingers push inside, and Daniel has to turn his head and kiss him, needs to feel he's claiming equal territory. His teeth scrape the other man's lip, dragging through stubble. Johnny's other arm comes up around him, caging and rolling him, his bed-warm body surging over Daniel's as he kisses him into the mattress.

“These are silly, by the way,” Johnny says as he raises up onto his knees to drag Daniel's pajamas down his legs.

“And the boxers you wore all the previous day are so much better,” says Daniel as he hooks the boxers in question with his feet and kicks them down the other man's thighs.

Johnny's arms catch his legs before they can drop back to the mattress. He meets Daniel's eyes and deliberately presses in, throat moving in a swallow as Daniel acquiesces: brings his knees to his chest and holds them there.

“Didn't say I didn't like them,” he says, and it takes several seconds before Daniel understands he is talking about the pajamas, of all things. He has no reply; he doesn't trust anything he might say. He pulls Johnny back down into a kiss so he'll stop looking at him like that.

When Johnny presses in, it's the same incredible, almost-overwhelming feeling from the first time, and he has to make a conscious effort not to close his eyes. Because he wants to see this, he wants to see the two of them on this bed, in this room. He chases the memory out in front of him like pleasure seeks an ending, because there's always an ending.

Johnny grips the headboard and curls over him with a long, hard thrust. His blue eyes flick up slightly, blinking, registering. Daniel knows, he just _knows_ exactly what he's thinking.

“It's screwed into the wall,” he says, hands slipping up to grip the wood, just inside Johnny's own. “Go as hard as you like.”

And he does.  
  


* * *

  
By noon, they have migrated out to the living room, where Daniel lies on the couch eating a bowl of Kashi and Johnny fries himself up four eggs.

“You're burning those,” Daniel says, because he can smell it from the living room.

“You can't _burn_ eggs, LaRusso.”

He drops his spoon back into his empty bowl with a clatter and squints at the ceiling. “Are they turning brown and crispy along the edges?”

“...Maybe I like them that way.”  
  


* * *

  
By half-past noon, Johnny's trying to bully him up from the couch (“Seriously, I had no idea you were so lazy. You're not even hungover, dude.”) and, when that doesn't work, he threatens to pick him up again. But he only gets as far as his hands beneath his back when Daniel attacks, and they both end up on the floor in front of the couch.

Daniel figures he should feel a little bad – Johnny's head missed the corner of the coffee table by inches – so he apologizes with a kiss.

“Got you off the couch, at least,” Johnny mutters against his mouth. Daniel digs his elbow into his side.  
  


* * *

  
By one, Johnny's intent upon taping up Anthony's room and at least getting the primer on the walls, and Daniel's so unsettled by this, he announces he's going for a run.

Johnny, already kneeling and stretching the blue tape out against the floor trim, raises his eyebrows. He looks torn between concerned and, honestly, kind of smug.

“Uh,” he says, fighting a smirk but not so hard Daniel can't see it anyway. “You sure you want to do that?”

Daniel knows exactly what he's thinking, but he's not going to acknowledge it. He pulls on his running shoes and shorts, grabs his airpods and smartwatch, and lets himself out of the apartment.

He knows within a couple blocks this was a bad idea. One, he didn't stretch. Two, he can feel Johnny with every step he pounds out over the pavement; three, he can't turn around and go back now without admitting it.

He ends up sitting on a park bench three blocks away from the building. It is the same park he sat with Sam in the afternoon before – _before_. There are no kids running around the playground; there almost never are, because there aren't a lot of families in the neighborhood. It's all Airbnbs and mid-career professionals and, he supposes, fifty-something divorcees trying to start over.

NPR's Marketwatch has been droning in his ear unheard for about ten minutes before he sighs and takes the earbuds out. He leans his elbows on his knees, pushes his thumbs into his eyes until they hurt, and tries to think of a plan.


	14. The Weekend, Part II

Johnny makes it so easy not to think.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel pours a generous measure of paint into the tray. He pauses and glances up to where Johnny stands leaning in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. Johnny raises his eyebrows; Daniel's mouth firms.

He picks up the roller and runs it through the tray. He straightens his shoulders and steps up to the primed wall that has had two hours to dry, and in one smooth move rolls out a long swath of pinkpink _pink._

“Fuck,” he says.

His arm drops, spattering paint on the drop cloth.

Johnny laughs, that stupid little snicker that makes him sound all of seventeen. He steps into the room and stands with Daniel before the streak of paint, tipping his head in a good impression of a man in an art museum; surprising, because Daniel seriously doubts this man has ever stepped foot in an art museum.

“Well,” says Johnny. “We shouldn't genderize colors. I'm sure your kid will be cool with this.”

Daniel stares at him. “Did you just – _genderize_ , really?”

Johnny shrugs and that's—

Daniel drops the roller and pins him against the wet wall, covering his mouth with his own. Johnny pushes up the back of his shirt, warm hands moving hungrily over his skin. He tries to get a leg between Daniel's but uses too much force and ends up catching the edge of the paint tray. It flips with predictable results.

Daniel takes his mouth away. He looks down at the paint now dripping from their jeans. Johnny's hands tighten a little, fingers pressing in on his spine.

“Still feeling philosophical about the genderizing?” asks Daniel dryly.

Johnny considers this and says, “Damage is already done,” and sweeps his leg.

They have sex on the drop cloth. The paint gets everywhere, but thankfully, not so much on the wall.  
  


* * *

  
Johnny makes it easy to forget about the future, which is funny because neither of them can ever forget about their past.  
  


* * *

  
They get Chinese take-out from this place down the street that's honestly not that great (more attention put into its styling than its sauces; some people run their restaurants like lifestyle companies, which Daniel will never understand), but it's close and easy. They sit at opposite ends of the couch, legs tangling in the center, and pick through the paper cartons. Daniel doesn't even mock Johnny's inability to use chopsticks. He's starting to think they can make this thing between them work.

“Kickboxer,” says Johnny.

“Nah.”

“What, why?” He sounds almost offended.

“Kind of over the whole – training montage with the mysterious old master shtick, you know?” says Daniel, speaking around a chunk of sweet and sour chicken. He gestures with his chopsticks. “They always make it seem so easy. Hate that.”

“Right, the movie should've been three hours of Van Damme kicking the stick. No awesome drunk dance scene, no broken glass fistfight. That would've been more realistic.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Okay, so which is your favorite, then?”

Daniel hesitated. “Timecop?”

Johnny threw his head back and groaned, “You gotta be kidding me.”  
  


* * *

  
Johnny makes it easy to act: to shorten that space between the wanting and the taking.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel can't look anywhere but at his face, intent upon every minute change in his expression. It's familiar, the same part of him that was always unsure in the second before he landed a hit in a fight, the clutch and release of nerves and satisfaction. _Can I do actually do this? Yes, I can._ Daniel is doing this and Johnny is letting him.

Daniel's draws his fingers out and Johnny's eyes tighten a little at the corners. There's sweat at his temple. A muscle in his cheek quivers.

“Go any slower, and I'm gonna fall asleep like this,” he grits out. His hand clenches on the pillow beside his head.

“No, you won't,” says Daniel and he fucks in, a smooth easy roll of his hips.

Johnny's different when he's being fucked; he talks. The words shake out of him in a breathless disbelieving rush, the _god_ s and the _fuck_ s, and once, when Daniel tilts his hips and wraps a hand around his dick, _oh_ _you motherfucker._

His mouth thrashes out what his body can't, and then his hands find Daniel's thighs and he says _baby_.

When it gets to be too much, Daniel puts his head down and fucks through the noise; the looks; the feeling building in his chest.  
  


* * *

  
Johnny makes it easy to forget himself.  
  


* * *

  
“Can't stay tonight,” says Johnny, but he doesn't move to throw Daniel off.

Daniel's almost drowsing, he's so knocked out, but at this he cracks his eyes open. After a couple seconds, he says, “Miguel's PT tomorrow morning, right?”

“You know about that?” Johnny sounds surprised.

“I think you mentioned it at some point last week.”

He sighs and rolls off the other man. They both sit up, legs swinging out opposite sides of the bed. Daniel runs a hand back, getting the hair out of his eyes. He stares blankly at the wall.

He thinks: say something.

It's a strange thing to be ashamed about: wanting someone to stay. Daniel's never been someone with those kinds of emotional hangups. If he liked someone, he told them. If he loved them, he showed them. He didn't know what was wrong with him these days.

“I've got a fridge of Coors and sandwich meat, and my mattress won't trap you for twelve hours like this thing does,” says Johnny.

“It was eleven hours,” says Daniel, and: “What?”

He twists around. Johnny stands and kicks up his boxers from the floor into his hand. He looks at Daniel and says:

“You coming or what?”  
  


* * *

  
Johnny makes it look too easy.


	15. The Weekend, Part III

Daniel wakes up on Sunday morning and thinks he really needs to get this man some new sheets. Something with a threadcount above fifty. He rubs his cheek against the mattress and swears he almost gets rug burn.

Johnny slings an arm around his middle and snugs up behind him: knees tucking behind his knees, lips to the back of his neck.

“Can't fuck,” mutters Daniel. “Can't move.”

“You wouldn't have to do any of the moving,” he says, dick nudging forward, incorrigibly hopeful.

Daniel grunts, still refusing to open his eyes. “Trying putting that in me, and I'll kill you.” His body below his waist is one long ache. He thinks if he tries straightening his legs right now, something might seize.

“Thought you said you couldn't move.”

“I'll use poison. I can play the long game.”

“You know, if you kept up your training up like I've been telling you, you wouldn't be in such a sorry state right now.”

His eyelids lift. “Jesus, Johnny, this is what you're like on mornings you're not hungover?”

Johnny's arm tightens. He bites down lightly on his shoulder. “I like you in my bed, so sue me.”

His dick is a hot, slippery line riding his ass – he must've grabbed some lotion or something, and this simple moment of galling presumption stirs something deep in Daniel: the distant beginnings of arousal. Give him a couple million years, and it might evolve into something.

Johnny's hand slips down and cups him gently.

Okay, maybe give him five minutes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grits out, long and low.

“Yeah, that's the idea, man.”

“Just – shut up, okay.” He reaches behind him, gets a hold on Johnny's leg and pulls, pressing back at the same time until the other man gets with the program and starts moving.

They rock together slowly, and fall quiet with it. The room fills with the sound of their breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress. Daniel ducks his head and watches Johnny's blunt hand work him.

He drags in a long breath and says quick, before he can think better of it, “Fuck me. Alright, just – c'mon, do it. Do it—”

Johnny doesn't ask if he's sure, doesn't wait for a second invitation. He presses his lips once roughly between Daniel's shoulder blades and then backs off just enough to line himself up. He fills Daniel in an achey hot press, his hands a bruising grip on his hips. They stay on their sides, and it's less a fucking than a slow agonizing occupation, the drag of Johnny inside him like a series of low lying detonations, weakening vital infrastructure. Daniel thinks he's going to shake apart.

He doesn't know how long it lasts; long enough that he thinks he's going to feel it for a long time; long enough that it's unimaginable he'll ever stop feeling it.  
  


* * *

  
He's not really awake when Johnny goes to take a shower and comes back and moves around the room, dressing.

He's definitely awake when Miguel calls Johnny's name from the other room and then wanders down the hallway and stands in the open doorway of the bedroom.

Thank god he's got a sheet over him, he thinks. It's the only clear thought in a head otherwise full of static.

“Oh,” says Miguel.

“Ah,” says Daniel. He can't think of a plausible reason he might be lying shirtless in Johnny's bed, but his mind sure is searching for one.

“Ignore him,” says Johnny, and for a second it's unclear who he is addressing. But then he slaps Miguel's shoulder and says, “He's useless before coffee, don't worry about it. C'mon, we're going to be late.”

Daniel stays prone on the bed, body still in a frozen state of shock, as Johnny ushers Miguel out of the room. He hears his voice, receding through the apartment:

“Hey, maybe don't tell your friend I'm banging her dad? There's probably a better way for her to find out.”

And that gets Daniel finally moving. He grabs a pillow and drags it over his face in order to shout in it, but then flinches back from the stale smell.

“Jesus Johnny, when did you last wash this thing?” he asks the empty room.  
  


* * *

  
He doesn't encounter any of his neighbors as he parks back at his building and makes his way (slowly, so slowly) to his apartment. He feels like anyone looking at him will be able to read the weekend on his face, in the hesitant hitch in his gait. Every step is a reminder.

Inside his apartment there is a mess of pink paint on a dropcloth in Anthony's room, an unmade bed that stinks of sex, and half a twelve pack of domestic lager in his fridge.

Daniel dumps his keys and jacket on the floor, grabs a Coors, and goes to take a long hot shower.


	16. A Very Special Moment with Miguel

Miguel waited until they were in the car and driving before broaching the subject; this way they could safely converse without having to necessarily look at one another. He was such a smart kid.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

And – yeah, actually, Johnny kind of did. The only person he could imagine talking about this with would be Miguel. But he didn't really know how. He was used to operating like one of those Chuck Yeager-type experimental jet pilots, acting cool and calm as if one of his engines hadn't caught fire. Except Johnny's engine fire was the sleepy, tousled dark head currently occupying his bed. Aims: unknown. Weapons: more than Johnny can count.

He checked his mirrors and hit his indicator. Waited until they were merging onto the freeway and then said casually, “It's just something that's been happening.”

If it sounded stupid in his head, it sounded impossibly dumber aloud. His eyes flinched in a withheld wince.

“Okay,” said Miguel, and there was something to be said for his generation, man. He said it like it was easy, _no big deal._

“Are you being careful?” he asked Johnny, a minute later.

He nearly swerved into a passing semi. “Dude, you are about _four decades_ too late with that talk. Jesus. Believe me, old Mrs. Walters in health class sophomore year took care of it. It's seared into my memory. With like, lasers.”

“No,” said Miguel, sounding embarrassed but also smiling out the window when Johnny glanced his way. “I mean, you and Mr. LaRusso have a lot of history, is all. You told me some of it. Seemed like – kind of a big deal to you.”

Johnny shook his head, shrugging. “Water under the bridge.”

“You guys were arrested last month for fighting.”

“That was just a misunderstanding. Between the cops and us.” Johnny's had way more of those than he'd like to admit to Miguel.

They drove on, radio easing the silence. When Johnny glanced at Miguel, he was frowning in thought.

“Do you at least have a plan?”

Every plan Johnny's ever made in his life ended the same way: blowing up in his face. But that didn't seem like a responsible mentor-type thing to say to a kid.

“My plan,” he said, pulling into the parking lot of the PT place, “is to get you back in healthy, fighting form.” He shifted into park and looked over at Miguel with a firm smile. “Anything past that's just cream, man.”


	17. Days Slipping

Johnny was impatient as he got to the lot across from the Public Works building on Monday. He was early. He'd been watching the clock all day, looking forward to his community service like some kind of nerd.

Like an even bigger nerd, Daniel was already there.

He stood outside his car, hands in jacket pockets, leaning against the door. His head lifted as Johnny pulled into the parking space beside him, and their eyes met through the window.

Johnny liked a lot of things about this.

He liked that he could recognize Daniel's work clothing as some kind of weekday get-up; it was a little like he was working undercover as a straitlaced businessman. No one looking at Daniel would guess he would throw down after a night of drinking, or flip off a bunch of cops, or spend a weekend fucking with Johnny on the floor, the couch, against a wall, over the kitchen table.

He liked the way Daniel's eyes darkened as he got out of his car, the way his body turned slightly: already receptive. And how his hand reached out to hook into Johnny's hoodie pocket, almost absently.

He liked they had twenty minutes before they had to head over.  
  


* * *

  
They settled into a routine and they didn't even have to talk about it, it was great.

Every other weekend Daniel had his kids and at first they didn't see each other for two days, but then one of them stopped being an idiot for long enough to realize they could hook up on Sunday nights after Sam and Anthony went back to Amanda, and it was great.

Johnny's never had so much sex in his life, and he used to tend bar during _spring break_ in the _eighties_. And it was _great_.  
  


* * *

  
“Uh,” said Johnny on the first of November, because it was a Tuesday but Daniel was at his door. Johnny had been working out, and he was actually pretty beat, to be honest, but hey if he really wanted –

“Don't start,” said Daniel, brushing past him. He was in his work suit, tie and everything, and he carried an actual briefcase. “I'm not here for that.”

“Okay,” he said, closing the door. He started to feel wary, and the misgiving only increased as Daniel took out a laptop, set it up on Johnny's table, and plugged something into the side of it. “What's that?”

“It's a Wi-Fi hotspot. You know, since you don't have Internet in this place,” said Daniel, not looking away from the screen. All business. He bent and typed.

“Those bundling packages are a ripoff, man. I'm not gonna fall for them no matter how many calls I get.” Johnny poured himself a glass of orange juice and stood braced against the kitchen counter, watching him operate. “You going to tell me what this is about? I feel like I'm about to be audited or something.”

He got a little more interested when Daniel abandoned the laptop and walked to him, hands reaching up to take possession of his shoulders. Johnny hurriedly set the glass down and raised his eyebrows, because _alright_ – but Daniel only steered him over and shoved him down in the chair in front of the computer.

Johnny looked at the screen. It read: HealthCare.gov and he said, “Seriously?”

Daniel pulled up a second chair and reached for the mouse. “First day of open enrollment, Johnny.”  
  


* * *

  
(They had sex after. Daniel adamantly denied it was a reward.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote Johnny Lawrence doing open enrollment before doing it myself. smdh.


	18. A Thursday in November

One day Johnny decided to swing by the car dealership, just because.

“Wasn't he banned,” whispered someone.

“Mr. Lawrence,” said Amanda LaRusso, coming forward with one of those expressions that was shaped like a smile but very much... not one. “Johnny. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for Daniel,” he said, and the fact that he had to explain it would've been a hint, if he was smarter. But between the nervous looks from the employees and too-wide eyes from Daniel's ex-wife, he was feeling a little out of his element. “He, uh. Around?”

The not-smile didn't change but she folded her arms. “I'd ask you take any fight off the grounds, we've had a hell of a time with the fallout from the last match-up.”

He flashed an uneasy grin and scraped a hand over the back of his head. “I wasn't really planning anything past grabbing lunch, but I'll keep that in mind.” Her eyebrows went up and he finally got it. “You know what? Never mind. I was passing, is all and – ” Christ, why was he even still talking. It was like these people were infectious.

He turned to go but Amanda's hand shot out, forestalling him with just a brush of her fingers. She took her hand back quickly as he shifted in place.

“He's doing a test drive with a customer,” said Amanda, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked around at a pair of employees watching them and jerked her head meaningfully to the side. They hastily turned and walked away.

Johnny shoved his hands in his pockets. “Test drives. Thought that would be a little below his pay grade.”

“Oh, you know, he saves it for the special ones,” she said brightly. “Just – you and Isaiah Robinson.”

“I don't know who that is,” he said, after a moment. “Sounds – wait, Aisha's dad?”

“And Hall of Fame lineman for the Chargers,” said Amanda, nodding significantly. She hesitated, looked at him oddly, and then sighed. “Look, do you want some coffee? They shouldn't be long.”  
  


* * *

  
“Johnny, I'll be honest. I'm a little concerned about Daniel and you. Whatever's happening here.”

He tried not to jiggle his foot where it was resting on his knee. How long did a test drive take, anyway?

“I mean, for years I heard about what a tough time he had when he first moved here. He's had to do a lot of work in therapy. And when you came back into his life – that didn't all end well, did it.”

“Hasn't ended,” he said. “Story's not over yet.”

Amanda didn't look particularly impressed. “Cute line, but this isn't an inspirational sports movie for teens. You can't expect me to believe things are going all that differently with you two. I mean, you got him arrested.”

“For the record? He started that fight,” said Johnny, shifting in his chair.

“Oh, I believe it,” she said unexpectedly. His foot stilled. “Daniel could pick a fight with Gandhi. Once, when Sam was eleven, a boy pushed her down on the playground, and I thought he was going to kick the kid's father through the jungle gym.”

Johnny didn't see anything particularly wrong with that. “Did Daniel ever tell you about the time he was on the soccer team for like, twenty minutes in high school? Before he got kicked out.”

Amanda said with slow, speculative interest. “No, no, he never mentioned that.”

He grinned a little and sat forward.  
  


* * *

  
The look on Daniel's face when he came to a stop in the doorway and stared in at Johnny and Amanda laughing would've been really, really funny, if it didn't kind of make Johnny want to be sick.

“Johnny,” he said, starting forward belatedly. At his side, his hand twitched. It's been weeks since he hadn't reached out to touch him in greeting. Daniel's eyes pinballed between them. “This is a surprise.”

“Yeah, I'm a surprising guy,” he said.

Amanda folded her fingers over her chin and gave Daniel a long look. She was going to be no help, he could see.

Johnny stood. “I just came by to, uh,”

“Take you to lunch,” prompted Amanda. Worse than no help. Enemy for life.

“But you seem really busy,” he finished, a little lamely.

Daniel didn't correct him. Something in him seemed like it had overloaded and shut down. He smoothed his tie, tugged his jacket and nodded at Johnny like he was a customer who'd just said he was only window shopping.

“I'll walk you out,” he said.

“Yeah, great,” said Johnny. He nodded to her. “Amanda, catch you later.”

“Keep it chill, J-man,” she said, because apparently that's where they were at after twenty minutes.

Johnny felt a little like he was being escorted off the premises, what with the glances from employees and curious customers, and the way Daniel returned those glances with a fleeting grimace of a smile.

“Wow, that was really fucking uncomfortable,” said Johnny when they got outside.

“I am, actually. Busy today,” said Daniel. He blinked at Johnny, still looking a little dazed.

He shrugged. “It's cool, man. No big deal.”

Daniel nodded, and kept nodding. Some awareness started to creep back in behind his eyes. “So what did you and Amanda, uh. Talk about?”

Shannon used to say Johnny could play dumb professionally. He used that now. “Oh, you know. We shot the shit.”

“Did she,” started Daniel, and then he stalled out. He couldn't even ask the question.

“Pretty sure she already knew,” said Johnny. He flipped his keys. “Starting to think she knows more than me.” That was too close, he decided. He gave a tight, awkward smile and turned to his car.

“Johnny,” Daniel said, and he finally was beginning to sound normal, because he was annoyed. “It wasn't intentional, alright. I just haven't figured out how to tell her.”

He pulled his door open, got it between them. “What's there to tell? We're just – two guys stuck doing community service.”

“ _Johnny_.”

“Relax. We're cool. See you tomorrow, alright?”


	19. Day 24, Part I

On Friday, Daniel looked into the van to where Johnny was sitting beside Kathy, and his face took on the most punchable look this side of Hollywood.

“ _Really_ ,” he said. Johnny trained his eyes forward. “This is – real mature, Johnny.”

“Don't know what you're talking about, man.”

“Would you like my seat so you can sit next to your boyfriend?” Kathy asked Daniel. And the worst thing was, she didn't even say it like a joke.

“He's fine,” said Johnny. “And he's not my – God, I hate that word.”

Kathy looked between them and sank back onto the bench seat. “Oh, it's like that,” she said sagely. She shook her head at Daniel. “Whatever it is, you best make amends now. These things are never better when they get dragged out.”

Daniel looked incensed. He threw Johnny a glare and climbed in behind them. His elbow clipped the back of Johnny's head, and he didn't even bother to pretend like it wasn't intentional.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel trailed him all over the underpass, piking trash and depositing it in his bag with such vicious movements, it was a real shock he'd hadn't torn the bag yet. Meanwhile, Johnny collected his garbage with a zenlike cool.

“Are we going to talk about this?” said Daniel. “Like, maybe we should talk about this.”

Johnny found a phone with a smashed screen. He turned it over in his hands and, after concluding it was otherwise intact, pocketed it. He could probably get the screen fixed and then pawn it.

“Are you listening to me? I said we should talk. Preferably before we end up throwing punches and get into more trouble.”

There was a small kicked-in television set, one of those old CRT types. Johnny was surprised those were still around even to be smashed. Talk about old school.

“Though, I don't know,” continued Daniel, agitatedly nudging a cardboard box up to check underneath it. “Maybe we _should_ just punch it out. Since apparently that's the only way we know how to communicate. God forbid my boyfriend acts like a grownup.”

Johnny grit his teeth and turned around. “Alright, you know what?”

“Oh, he speaks. Name the devil and he shall appear.”

“You're so—”

He flashed a mean smile. “Or call him _boyfriend_ , I guess, and it pisses him off enough to summon him.”

It was so like him to hide his big gay relationship from everybody, and then turn around accuse Johnny of being closeted or whatever. A gold star performance by Daniel LaRusso.

“You want to know what I think, Daniel? You really want to know?”

“Wow me with your insights, Johnny. Go ahead.”

“Alright. I think – I think you're fucking crazy. Alright?” He stepped forward. “You're a crazy person. I'm doing fine, I'm getting by, living my life. Whatever. And, and then you knock on my door one day out of the blue and suddenly you're kissing me and I'm getting arrested. And then everyone blames me! You act like you can't stand me one moment and then jump me the next.” He put his finger in Daniel's face, deliberately provoking. “You got issues, man.”

“I know I have issues!” shouted Daniel, throwing his arms out like Christ on the cross, his garbage swinging wildly from the motion. “That's why I'm in _ther-a-py._ But at least I try, at least I talk with someone. This is the most you've said about it since we were drunk in that parking lot.”

Johnny found he was more exhausted than angry. “What's there to say? We've been sleeping together for a couple months and yeah, I get why you wouldn't tell your kids about it yet. I get that. But you can't even admit it to your ex-wife?”

Daniel dropped his arms. “You were right, she already knew,” he said, much more quietly.

“That's not the point.”

“I wasn't hiding anything,” he said. “Or, it's not what it seems. It's just, this whole thing,” said while waving around the underpass, like a relationship with Johnny came with urban wasteland included, “it's been – a lot. And I haven't found the right way to think through it yet. But I'm trying.”

Johnny didn't know what there was to think about. He watched the other man for a moment and said finally, “Look, go ahead and do your thinking. We have to be here, we don't have a choice in that but later – I don't know. Maybe it's better if we take a step back.”

Daniel paled. He was silent for a moment. Then, in an odd tone:

“I don't have to be here.”


	20. Day 24, Part II

Johnny scoffed, not really listening because Daniel talked nonsense all the time, constantly rewriting history, and it was generally better for them both if he didn't pay much attention.

“Right, right. You're here out of the goodness of your heart,” he said.

“No, you moron.” And now Daniel began to look furious again, shoulders up around his ears. In the autumn mist he looked like nothing so much as a wet, angry cat. “For the love of god, Johnny – it was community service or a _fine_.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, nonplussed, “but who can afford,” and then Daniel's meaning clicked and the words dried up. He licked his lips. “Oh. You, uh.”

They stared at each other. Daniel's quickborn anger began to melt into something stricken and he looked away, reaching up to press fingers over his eyes.

He said, words grinding out of him, “I didn't. I couldn't think of another way to – see you again, so. It just, it made sense, okay.”

“Picking up fast food wrappers and heroin needles for one hundred hours so you could see me... made sense,” said Johnny, just checking. He needed to be absolutely clear about this.

Daniel's breath punched out of him. “Yes.”

Johnny dropped his picker and bag, took three steps and kissed him. Daniel responded immediately, mouth opening and hands coming up catch on his shoulders. His bag of trash clinked and swung against Johnny's back.

It was perfect.

“Hang on a second,” said Luis, behind them. “You mean we been watching the lamest telanovela in the world and it was all because Auto King here couldn't talk about his feelings like a man?”

“Fuckin' A,” said Skylar in disgust. “Baby boomers be trippin'.”

“We're not _baby boomers_ ,” said Daniel, tearing his mouth away because kissing, what was kissing when there were punks to talk shit at. Johnny dragged his mouth across Daniel's temple to hide his grin.

“ _That's_ your problem with that?” he said belatedly.  
  


* * *

  
It was Friday, and that weekend Daniel's kids were with Amanda.

Johnny leaned against his car and pulled Daniel into place between his legs. “So – your place or mine?” he asked, and it still felt weird that he got to assume this, that Daniel was someone whose time and presence were something he could lay claim to now. He'd apparently already claimed one hundred hours, and he was just getting started.

He was never going to let Daniel live it down.

“You know we still have a lot of talking to do, right?” said Daniel dryly, setting his hands on the roof of the car on either side of Johnny.

“Yeah, that's what I meant. I'll talk to you,” said Johnny, and he couldn't stop smirking. One hundred hours. He grabbed his ass. “I'll talk to you – all – night – long.”

Daniel stopped fighting his smile, though he compromised by directing it off to the side. Johnny looked at the hint of grey at his temples and thought: one hundred hours.

“So,” he said again. “Your place or mine?”

“How about neither?” replied Daniel. He looked back at him, took a breath, and said, “Why don't we go out to my dojo?”


	21. Day 24, Part III

“Robby talks about this place so much,” said Johnny as they pulled up outside the dojo. “I guess it's kind of weird I've never actually seen it before.”

Daniel tapped a finger on the edge of his steering wheel. “He helped me a lot, when I was putting it back to rights. I – hope he'll want to come back some day. But I'm not sure he will, after everything.”

“Eh, he just needs to know he's welcome.”

“He is.” He cut his eyes over. “You both are.”

Johnny wasn't sure how he was supposed to get through all this talking without grabbing Daniel and moving on straight to the sex. Tall order.

He followed Daniel through the gate and past the cars, and part of him wanted to stop and pop the hoods, poke around. That could wait, though. He wanted to see the dojo.

They went inside, Johnny toeing off his shoes by the door so he could feel the mat the way it was meant to be felt. He looked around at the walls, the Miyagi-do creed displayed prominently. The place was quiet, in more ways than one. But it felt solid through and through.

Daniel led him to the back and Johnny brushed past him to stand on the thick grass and stare around at the trees, the water. It was unbelievable to him all this was here. You'd never know it from the other side of the fence.

Behind him, Daniel said, “Well, what do you think?”

“This place is,” beautiful; it was beautiful, “really something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looked at Daniel. His shoulders were already easing; he carried himself differently in this place, and he was letting Johnny see it, see him. “I get why a kid would want to come out here. Get away, when everything gets to be too much.”

“Robby seemed to respond to it,” he agreed.

“That's not the kid I was talking about.”

They looked at each other across the grass, and the years.

Daniel cleared his throat. “Johnny, I know I said I wanted to talk – and I do, we will. But do you maybe want to—”

He tried not to perk up too obviously. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to spar for a bit?”

He just might love this man.  
  


* * *

  
Afterwards, they sat together inside, Daniel back against Johnny's chest so the latter could hold the ice pack against his shoulder.

“Guess we should've seen this coming,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “You need to start coming out here more often, get back in condition. You're out of shape.”

“You say the sweetest things,” reflected Daniel. His eyes were closed and he was rapidly going boneless against him. If they were going to talk, Johnny figured they should do it soon before the other man fell asleep on him.

“You said earlier, you weren't hiding, that that's not what all this was about. What did you mean?”

Daniel sighed and opened his eyes. He shifted a little so he could meet Johnny's gaze, considering him for a long moment.

“You know, I was married to Amanda for twenty years?” he said, expression going distant, remembering. “We had a, a first home, right. This crappy bungalow with a busted water heater that I must've sank a few grand in trying to fix and never quite managed. And then we moved into a second home. We started a business. We had _two kids_.”

Johnny watched him, trying to understand.

Daniel ran a shaking hand through his hair and then threw it out into the air like he could toss the images from his head just as easily. “And then it was over. All of that, a whole life – gone. And all I can think these days, whenever things seem like they're going well – all I can think is how easily they can fall apart. It's like, if my marriage could end, anything could.” He reached out and put his hand over Johnny's bent knee. “We could.”

“We won't,” said Johnny, and then, to cover his ass: “I mean, yeah, I guess we could, that's life. But.” He shook his head. “We won't.”

He tossed the ice pack down on the floor a few feet away, sensing he'd need the use of his hands soon.

Daniel stared at him. “How can you be so sure? Look at the fight we had today. I mean, our track record does not exactly inspire confidence.”

“You're the one who was always saying it, man. Remember?” He looked away and then quickly back again, because this wasn't the kind of thing you said without eye contact. He put his arms around Daniel's middle and pressed close. “'You and me? This'll never be over.'”

Daniel's dark eyes searched his for a long moment, and his face began to twist with helpless incredulity. “Jesus Johnny, all those times I was talking about wanting to kick your—”

He kissed him, pausing the argument if not finishing it, because it was probably never going to be finished.

And after a second, Daniel hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him back.


End file.
